


Stone Cold Fire

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Hurt/Comfort, I hope I made that clear enough, Sick Alexander Hamilton, Sickfic, Washingdad, there is proofreading but it was done at 3 am so not sure how effective that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:28:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He was just tired, that was all. He wasn't sick, couldn't be with all that he still had to do. On another note, did someone light a fire somewhere?Alexander doesn't take care of himself, and ends up delirious with fever. George is trying his best to help him. He just has to make it through the night.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 29
Kudos: 338





	1. Not Quite Alright

**Author's Note:**

> This was only meant to be a 1k oneshot oops

Alexander had gotten used to this feeling.

The chills that never seemed to quite go away, the constant ache in his bones. Coming to New York had been a shock to his system, and he was still not accustomed to the freezing weather. This was nothing new.

What was new, however, was his inability to keep his hands from trembling. They shook so hard that holding a quill was a near impossibility. Not completely though. He found that if he wrote for long enough and concentrated on steadying his hand, the shaking would be replaced with a dull pain and he was once again able to write. Following this new discovery, focus he did.

It lasted three days.

He hardly noticed the time passing by, his only breaks were to occasionally eat something. He wrote for hours on end, even managing to get a hold on some of the other aide’s work. The others didn't mind, of course. The winter made the days short and the nights cold, and everyone in their right mind wanted to sleep through the worst of it out of the cold room in the home they had been rented. Everyone, that is, but Alexander.

He answered letters from Congress, demanding that they do something about the diminishing troops and the dire lack of supplies. He wrote back to other Generals, who had asked for updates from their side of the war. Hell, he'd even drafted a financial system in his spare time that could help get the colonies back on their feet. He was trying everything to be helpful, and to keep his damn hand from slipping and messing up the page. He knew that he was only in his position because of his ability to write, and he'd be damned if he let a little cold cost him his position as General Washington's aide de camp.

He wrote so much that he didn't notice the changes in his body. He was lightheaded, and couldn't stand up too quickly for fear of passing out. He was shaking again, no matter how much he focused on steadying himself. It wasn't just his hands now. His entire body was trembling, making writing ten times more difficult than when it was just his hands that were affected. His thoughts were disconnected, and vaguely he realized that he shouldn't be writing important letters if he couldn't even remember who they were to or what they were about. That didn't stop him, it only strengthened his resolve to work harder.

So caught up in his letter to General Greene, he didn't notice that Washington had entered the room and was talking to him.

"-nder?" he said. Realizing that Washington was in the room _right next to him_ , he shot up out of his seat to salute. _Bad_ idea. He lost his balance, his mind going blank. His knees buckled and he started to fall forward. A hand reached out and grabbed his arm, righting him.

He regained his balance and was shocked to find that Washington was holding him up. Pulling himself out of his grip he took a deep breath. _God, his head hurt_. "Sir-" he started, but was cut off by Washington.

"Alexander, are you alright?" he asked, concern visible in his eyes.

He felt a spark of annoyance at Washington's worried tone. There was nothing wrong with him, he was only lightheaded. He was perfectly fine, thank you very much, and more than capable of continuing his work. He'd get a drink and be okay. "I'm fine, sir." he said stiffly. Not entirely out of anger, but his body was shaking and sore and he'd really appreciate it if Washington left so he could sit back down again. If he didn't, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stay standing, even out of respect for his commanding officer.

"You look unwell. Should you go to the medical tent?" he asked, still worried despite _nothing being wrong_.

"I'm _fine_ , sir, only a little weary. I'll finish this letter to General Greene then go rest." He knew that was a blatant lie. He'd finish this letter, then start another. The war didn't stop just because he was tired, and if he didn't manage to convince Congress to deliver much needed supplies, then it would be his fault. 

Washington still looked troubled, but conceded. "If you insist, son."

Alex bit back a retort at the word son.

"I came here to request that you accompany me on a walk. But of course, if you are feeling unwell-"

"I am feeling perfectly fine, Your Excellency. I will join you on your walk." he said. But the truth was, he wasn't even sure how he'd make it out of this house. His legs were threatening to give out, his head was foggy, and he was hot. They must have started a fire somewhere in here, though he couldn't tell which direction the heat was coming from. He'd have to hope that this walk would be short, and not require much of his insight.

Pushing these things away, he grabbed his cloak off of the chair. It was threadbare and would not provide much in the way of heat. Even so, he didn't want to put it on, the heat in the house being too much for even what he had on now. However, he knew that to not put on the cloak would rouse more suspicion in Washington, and he decided to put it on in order to forgo any more questions on his state. 

He stepped away from his desk, away from Washington. Trying not to make his struggle to stay upright obvious, he made the first step towards the door. Looking behind him, he saw that Washington looked hesitant, but he took another step and the General followed him out the door.

Outside of the house, Alexander realized why he was so hot. Everyone else in the camp were huddled around fires, tightening their grip on their overcoats. Even Washington, who he had seen in the most extreme temperatures without letting it known that it affected him, was shivering slightly. Not him, though. He was now downright boiling in his uniform. It was taking everything in his power not to rip off the layers of his clothes. He was sweating, and came to the conclusion that he must have a slight fever. It didn't matter though. It couldn't be too high, because he was still able to walk. This was nothing compared to what he's had before, and he was determined to power through it. If he was lucky enough, no one would notice and he would recover in a few days. If not, then he would just have to suffer.

"Alexander?"

Shit, Washington was talking to him and he had once again failed to catch what he had said, caught up in his own thoughts. "Sir?"

Washington stopped walking. Alexander vaguely noticed that they were on the edge of a clearing. When had they gotten here? "I asked what you-"

Alex didn't catch the last bit. He couldn't understand a word that he was saying, couldn't process where he was at. _God he was hot_. Why couldn't he hear anything? What was he doing here again? His thoughts were disjointed. He needed to take this damn cloak off. He tried to move and take it off. He vaguely heard Washington say something. Washington? That was right, he came out here with him. Where was here, again? He was suddenly very tired. He tried to stay standing, but he couldn't. Maybe he'd close his eyes for a moment. He heard a voice call his name. Mama? Yes it must be. If she was here then he could rest. He was safe. He let his eyes slip shut, and let the darkness take him.

* * *

Washington was worried.

Alexander hadn't stood up when he entered the room, which was concerning in itself. He never took the chance of being told off for insubordination. His lack of response to George's presence was just as out of character as him backing down from an argument.

Then, he was unsteady. Shivers weren't uncommon in his aides, what with the winter inspiring fear in even those most acclimated to the weather. However, Alexander wasn't in the least. His background in the Caribbean meant that he wasn't used to temperatures below the seventies, and this was almost eighty below that. He had seen how his hands were trembling over the past few days when he’d dictate a letter for Alexander to write, but he wrote it off. However, when he saw Alex sitting at his desk shaking so hard he could barely write, he knew it was something more. He never faltered in his writing, always going a hundred words a minute. When he had walked in, Alexander was barely writing, putting his full concentration into forming his words.

The uncharacteristic behavior of Alex had him nervous. He had originally walked into the room to ask Alex for a report on the supplies that Congress had supposedly sent their way, but the second he laid his eyes on Alexander he knew that wouldn't happen. He decided that it was probably best to get Alexander out of this room and give him a chance to clear his head. Judging by the mess on the desk, it had been a while since he had left. "Alexander, son, are you alright?"

There was no answer. Hamilton stayed hunched over his desk, brow furrowed in concentration. He walked over to his desk and tried again. "Alexander?"

It seemed to catch his attention. He turned his head, and upon spotting Washington he quickly stood up and saluted. The motion seemed to be too sudden for him. His legs gave out, and he started to fall forward. George grabbed his arms, preventing him from toppling over. Alexander regained his footing and pulled himself out of George's grasp. "Sir-"

"Alexander, are you alright?" He asked again.

He looked offended at Washington's concern. "I'm fine, sir."

Obviously, he was not. Up close, George could see his flushed cheeks and the hazy look in his eyes. Alexander was trying his best to hide it, but George hadn't become a General by being inattentive to details. However, he knew that this would not be a fight that he wanted to get into. He had to try, though. "You look unwell. Should you go to the medical tent?" He asked one more time.

"I'm fine, sir, only a little weary. I'll finish this letter to General Greene then go rest." He said.

George knew that was a lie. From what he had overheard from Laurens' conversation with Lafayette, Hamilton hadn't gone back to his tent in three nights. That probably had something to do with Hamilton's current state. He let it slide, he would never get Alexander to rest if he didn't. "If you insist, son. I came here to request that you accompany me on a walk. But, of course, if you are feeling unwell-"

Alexander cut him off. "I am feeling perfectly fine, Your Excellency. I will join you on your walk." He grabbed his cloak off of the chair next to him. Good thing too. The weather outside was well below zero, and even the house was freezing. George had no idea how he had kept it off indoors, even though no fire had been lit and it was cold enough inside to snow. He started walking towards the door, and after a second George followed. They made their way through the halls, out the front doors, and into the woods behind the house.

Walking the path, Washington stayed silent and went back to observing his young aide de camp. His footfalls were heavy, breaking what seemed like every branch they came across. He was looking down, as though every step was taking immense concentration. He wasn't saying anything, though, so they continued.

When they reached the small clearing they had been walking towards, George turned towards Alexander. The silence was unnerving. Alexander never seemed to stop talking, yet now not a word escaped his lips. "So, son, what do you think about Congress' to divide the power among the colonies?" He asked, trying to get Alexander to respond. Any talk of the Articles of Confederation usually sent Alexander into an hour long spiel about the importance of a strong, centralized government. He received no answer from the boy, who was still staring at his boots. "Alexander?"

His head jerked up. "Sir?"

George frowned. "I asked what you thought about- Son, are you alright?"

Alexander had spaced out again. He was swaying, barely staying upright. Vaguely moving his arms, he started to struggle with his cloak.

"Son, don't take that off. You'll get frostbite in this weather." Alexander didn't seem to hear. He continued struggling to get his arms out of the cloak. 

George took a step forward. He grabbed his arm to steady him. "Alexander?"

Abruptly, Alexander's eyes rolled up in his head. He went limp, and George was barely able to leap forward to catch him. Now that he was holding him, he could feel how bad he looked. Sweat was dripping down his forehead and his body was shaking. His arm supporting Alex's head, he could feel his heartbeat, way too rapid. His nose and cheeks were flushed red, while the rest of him was ghostly pale. Most concerning, however, was the heat radiating off of his unconscious body. He looked so small in George's arms.

George didn't know what to do. They were a mile away from camp, and there was no way Alexander would be able to walk the way back, even if he was able to rouse him. The only thing he could do was carry him back. Slipping his arms underneath his knees and back, George picked him up bridal style. He was too light, and his body felt like an inferno. Whatever illness had infected Alexander was quickly turning dangerous. He had seen countless men die like this, a fever so high they went delirious with no medicine available to ease their suffering. Turning back towards the path, George started walking. The figure in his arms didn't stir, and George was fearful of Alex. He made his way down the path as fast as he could without jostling the boy. He had to get back to camp now, before he got worse. If his fever rose, George didn't want to think about what could happen.

He had to get him back. _He had to._


	2. Uncomprehending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been at peak stress levels for the last week, but I just sat down and wrote this out in one sitting.

By the time George had made it back to camp, Alex was shaking so hard he could barely keep his grip on him. They had walked for a mile, the short distance made infinitely harder by the weight in his arms. Alexander had stayed unconscious the entire way, not once stirring. Just when he was questioning if he had gone the correct way, George saw the lights from the campfires. He could make out the rented house in the distance as they got closer. Just as he got to the border of camp, however, one of the patrols appeared out of the foliage.

“Stop! State your name and purpose!” He said, pointing his bayonet at them. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, his uniform too big on him and the weapon in his hand shaking slightly. He reminded George of Alex, way too young to be fighting in this godforsaken war.

“General George Washington. I was out for a stroll when Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton collapsed of fever. Let us pass.” The threat at the end of his sentence was left unsaid, but clear enough to understand. The young patrol scrambled out of his way, eyes wide, to let them through.

Walking into the clearing where they were camping, George questioned what to do. In the twenty minute walk there, he had only focused on one single thought-  _ Save Alexander. _ Now that they were here, he realized that he didn’t have a plan. He could take him to the medical tent, but that would most likely do more harm than good. It was full of the sick and wounded, and being in that environment would no doubt enhance the sickness in Alexander. He could take him back to his room and summon a doctor to observe him in there, but if he was needed he would be on the complete other side of the house, unable to be by his side as soon as necessary. His only other option would be to take Hamilton to his private quarters and summon his doctor there. Within the privacy of his own room, he would be able to watch over him from a short distance, and there was no chance of him contracting another illness as he battled this one. Starting toward the house, he kept to the shadows to make his presence unknown and avoid the questions.

When he walked in the door, he didn’t bother taking off his coat. Telling one of the servants to start a fire in his room and to fetch a basin of cold water, he carried Alexander’s limp body up the stairs. When he got to the room, the small fireplace in the corner was lit and a slight warmth filled the small room. A bowl of water was sitting on the bedside table, along with a clean rag. He gently set Alex down onto the bed and removed his outer layers.

Alexander looked worse in the light that was provided by the candles. His face sheened with sweat. His cheeks and nose were bright red, and not from the cold. The rest of him was deathly pale. His lips were chapped and slightly parted, small laboured breaths making their way through. His chest rose and fell far too quickly, signalling difficulty with breathing. He looked so small, his prone form shivering on top of the bed. George wanted to cover him with blankets to stop his shivering, but he feared that the extra heat would do more harm than good.

“I’ll be right back, Alex.” He promised to the unconscious boy. Ducking into the hall, he quickly tracked down an aide and told them to fetch the doctor. When he came back inside, Alexander was awake.

“Wha’?” He asked, confused. He looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings.

“You collapsed, son. You took ill, and still saw yourself fit to join me on my walk.” George said, slightly reprimanding him. He way happy though, that he still seemed to have his wits about him.

“‘Notcha son.” He mumbled, eyes slipping closed once more. Of course that’s what he took out from that. Not the fact that he had worked himself to the brink of death, but the fact that George had called him son. In sickness and in health, he was as stubborn as a mule.

“Of course not, Alexander.” He said softly. “Do try to stay awake. The doctor is coming.”

Alex opened his eyes at this, and struggled to sit up. “I’m fine, I don’t need a doct’r. ‘m not sick!” He protested, slight panic shining through in his voice.

“Hey, it’s alright Alexander. He’s only going to examine you. I’ll be right outside.” George said, trying to comfort him.

Alex started shaking his head violently. “No! No, don’t go! Pl’se, don’t go!” Alex said, his breaths coming out rapidly.

George quickly moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached out and started stroking Alex’s hair soothingly. “Hey, I won’t leave. I’ll be right here. Alright, son?” George cooed, trying to calm down the panicking boy. This seemed to work, as Alex’s breaths slowed down and he cautiously nodded.

Someone knocked on the door, and George stood up from the bed and made his way to the door. Alex made a noise of protest, but George gently hushed him and opened the door. The doctor was standing there, medical bag slung over one arm. “Doctor  Cochran, Your Excellency. Where is the patient?”

George pointed at Alexander, who at this point had once again closed his eyes. The only sign that he was still awake was the nervous twitching of his fingers. Walking back over to the bed with the doctor, he said, “Hamilton, this is Doctor Cochran.” He took one of Alex’s fidgeting hands, and rubbed soothing circles on his palm to calm him,

The doctor made quick work of his business. He checked his eyes and throat, measured his temperature, and set out some herbs. Once satisfied, he turned towards George. “His fever is dangerously high. I have set out some quinine powder and dogweed. I would recommend bleeding, but Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton has made his opinion on that treatment very clear.”

That he had. Countless times, he has gotten into arguments with his fellow soldiers and even a few doctors about the effectiveness of bleeding. He claimed that it didn’t do anything for the patient, and did more harm than good.

The doctor continued. “Make a tea of the quinine powder every hour, and be sure he gets it down. And General,” he said, lowering his voice so it was only able to be heard between the two of them, “His illness is severe. His chances of recovery are slim. If he gets through the night, he may recover. But…” he said, trailing off in a way that made the meaning of “but” very clear. He probably wouldn’t survive the night. And God, if that didn’t feel like a knife to his heart.

“Thank you, Doctor.” The doctor nodded, quickly packing his bags and leaving. They were alone once again. He hadn’t let go of Alexander’s hand once through the process, keeping to his promise. His eyes were open, just barely, and he didn’t seem to be completely processing what he was seeing.

“‘m I goin’ to be alright?” He asked, turning his head slightly.

George fought the pain in his chest. “Of course, son. You’ll be up and working by the end of the week.”

Alex nodded his head, still in a trance-like state.

“You do need to drink the quinine powder. It will lower your fever.” He said, moving away from Alex for the first time in over an hour. He went to his desk, where the doctor had placed it. Filling a small cup with water, he added in the powder. When he made his way back to Alex, he looked confused.

“I ‘ave a fever?” He questioned.

George was slightly taken aback. Hadn’t they just gone over this? “Yes, son. You need to drink this to lower it.” He carefully lifted Alex into a sitting position, and held the cup to his lips.

Realization dawned on his face. Frantically, he grabbed George’s arm that was holding the cup, causing him to almost spill it. “Not me! You must give it to my mother! She’s sick. I think she caught it from me.” He said, trailing off sadly.

George was horrified. Was the fever so bad he did not know where he was? “Alexander,” he said evenly, “Your mother is not here. You are at camp. You are fighting in a war, and you are my aide-de-camp. You are not on the islands.”

Alex shook his head. “No, my maman, she needs the powder! If she dies, I killed her! Please!”

George was heartbroken. Did he really think that he had killed his mother because she happened to contract an illness that he had? “Alright, Alexander. I’ll take it to your mother. But first, you must drink yours.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Alex finally opened his mouth and drank the brew. His face contorted at the bitter taste, but he didn’t say anything. Looking up at George through hazy eyes, he was obviously almost asleep again. “Thank you, fath’r.” He mumbled, then slipped off into sleep.

George felt his heart stop. Alex called him father. Alexander, the boy who shied away at any form of paternal feelings, who grew irrationally angry at the simple word ‘son’, had called George ‘father’. Rationally, he knew that these were the words of a boy delirious with fever. He thought that his late mother was still alive, and thought that he was back on Nevis. It only made sense that he thought George was his father. These were the thoughts that George held onto as he looked at the young man sleeping. He sat down on the chair, and waited until the hour was up and he would need to give him the powder again.

When he woke up the second time, Alexander was even more out of it. He continued asking for his mother, despite George telling him that she wasn’t there. He could barely make him choke down the liquid, and ended up having to make another batch after he flailed his arms and knocked the cup out of George’s hand. At one point, when Alexander was once again asleep, he tried to leave and go fetch his friends, Laurens and Lafayette. They may be able to provide some comfort to the ailing boy, as they had known them for years and knew more about his life before the war than George did. But, when he tried to leave the room, Alex’s voice called after him.

“Pl’se don’ go. ‘m sorry! Fath’r, don’t leave pl’se!” He begged, his head turning to stare uncomprehendingly at George. He was back by the bed in an instant, gripping his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere Alex. I’ll never leave you.” George promised. He felt tears welling in his eyes, but he didn’t allow them to fall. He had to be strong for Alexander. He could deal with his own emotions later.

The cycle continued. Every hour, George would wake Alexander. He would force some medicine down his throat, semi successfully, and listen to his babbling. He talked to the people that he could see in the shadows of the room, people that George could not see. He apologized to his mother, begging her not to go. He spoke to his friends, questioning if this war was worth the pain and suffering they had gone through. At one point, he talked to his wife, the beautiful and intelligent Elizabeth Schuyler. He asked her why she had chosen him. He told her that she should have chosen someone else, someone who would be able to provide properly for her and their children. George was by his side for the entire time, soothing him and placing a cold washcloth on his forehead to help with the heat.

He wasn’t getting better. His fever was only rising, and his right mind was lost. George didn’t know what he would do if the fever didn’t lower soon. His body was an inferno, and even from just holding his hand, he was uncomfortably warm.

“Please Alexander, fight this.” He begged, once again holding the cup to his lips. He had stopped talking about an hour ago. If his delirious rambling were concerning, the dead silence was downright terrifying. When he had been speaking, George could see the Alexander that he knew. Now, when the only signs of life was his slight shivering, it was too easy to see him as barely more than a corpse.

It had been maybe six hours since they had first arrived back at the house when he noticed. His breaths had once again returned to a normal pace, and he was no longer shaking. Placing the back of his hand to his sweaty forehead, he could feel the fever had significantly lowered. George almost sobbed in relief. Alex stirred, and when his eyes opened he could see that they were once again seeing the real world, not the one he had created in his head.

Through the window, light filtered in as the sun slowly rose over the horizon. His son had done it. Alex had survived the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If y'all like it, please comment. I love feedback, and it makes my day every time. It lets me know someone is reading this, and I'm not just writing for an empty room.

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck by the God of Writing and I have like 20 ideas written out and plotted and I don't remember the last time I felt this motivated. Too bad it's going into hurting Alex.


End file.
